Poets

Richard Aldington

1892–1962

Richard Aldington was born Edward Godfree Aldington on July 8, 1892, in Hampshire, England. He studied at Dover College and London University. He became friends with Ezra Pound and was an early member of the Imagist movement, publishing the poetry collection Images Old and New (The Four Seas Company, 1916). He married the poet H. D., another important figure in Imagism, in 1913; they divorced in 1938.

In 1916 Aldington joined the British Army and went on to serve in the Royal Sussex Regiment in France. He began publishing poems about the war soon after; in February 1918, he wrote a letter to a friend: “It may seem to you that I have been almost wantonly morbid in these war poems…. You cannot know, you cannot understand, where you are, the mentality of the soldier—the profound shattering of the nerves, the over-wrought tension, the intensity of sensation which come to him.”

He published numerous volumes of poetry, including The Complete Poems of Richard Aldington (A. Wingate, 1948), Exile, and Other Poems (G. Allen & Unwin, 1923), and Images of War (G. Allen & Unwin, 1919). He was also known for his novels, including Death of a Hero () and his biographies, most famously Lawrence of Arabia (1955).

Collections

Lesson Plans

By This Poet

I
Like a gondola of green scented fruits
Drifting along the dank canals of Venice,
You, O exquisite one,
Have entered into my desolate city.
II
The blue smoke leaps
Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.
So my love leaps forth toward you,
Vanishes and is renewed.
III
A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky
When the sunset is faint vermilion
In the mist among the tree-boughs
Art thou to me, my beloved.
IV
A young beech tree on the edge of the forest
Stands still in the evening,
Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air
And seems to fear the stars—
So are you still and so tremble.
V
The red deer are high on the mountain,
They are beyond the last pine trees.
And my desires have run with them.
VI
The flower which the wind has shaken
Is soon filled again with rain;
So does my heart fill slowly with tears,
O Foam-Driver, Wind-of-the-Vineyards,
Until you return.

Why do you always stand there shiveringBetween the white stream and the road?

The people pass through the dustOn bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;The waggoners go by at dawn;The lovers walk on the grass path at night.

Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!You are more beautiful than they are.

I know that the white wind loves you,Is always kissing you and turning upThe white lining of your green petticoat.The sky darts through you like blue rain,And the grey rain drips on your flanksAnd loves you.And I have seen the moonSlip his silver penny into your pocketAs you straightened your hair;And the white mist curling and hesitatingLike a bashful lover about your knees.

I know you, poplar;I have watched you since I was ten.But if you had a little real love,A little strength,You would leave your nonchalant idle loversAnd go walking down the white roadBehind the waggoners.

There are beautiful beechesDown beyond the hill.Will you always stand there shivering?

One night I wandered alone from my comrades’ huts;
The grasshoppers chirped softly
In the warm misty evening;
Bracken fronds beckoned from the darkness
With exquisite frail green fingers;
The tree gods muttered affectionately about me,
And from the distance came the grumble of a kindly train.
I was so happy to be alone,
So full of love for the great speechless earth,
That I could have laid my cheek in the wet grasses
And caressed with my lips the hard sinewy body
Of Earth, the cherishing mistress of bitter lovers.